


Contingency Plan Zero

by frackin_sweet



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-27
Updated: 2009-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frackin_sweet/pseuds/frackin_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is an A/R imagining of events following episode 2:20, and diverges from canon at that point.  Basically, rather than abandon Chuck to eternity in an underground bunker, Agents Casey and Walker have a contingency plan.  It goes better than expected, in a couple of different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contingency Plan Zero

Hong Kong or Prague. It all comes down to those two choices, since they didn't have time to discuss it before the entire scenario went to hell.

Choices aren't generally standard operating procedure for John Casey. SOP for him usually comes down to liquidating the asset.

But - when the General tells them that the time has come to relocate the Intersect to a secure location, SOP takes second chair to Contingency Plan Zero. And he doesn't even really know when it happened.

Wait. He does. It's when Walker made eye contact on the CC feed, with him, over Chuck's shoulder. She initiated Zero, even though he can't be sure what she said. So it's down to him, the good soldier - sit tight and wait on a delivery that doesn't come, and then wait for the General to call him onto the figurative carpet. Let her tell him what he already knows, that Walker's gone rogue, she's hijacked the Intersect, and he's going to be the one cleaning up the mess.

He's got a pretty good idea already, and to confirm it, he rifles through the collection of passports they've obtained (through non-agency channels) for Bartowski. There should be nine, in all. But right now, there are eight. The Canadian one is missing. This means that a) Walker will be on her way to Hong Kong, traveling with her imaginary charge; and b) Casey can expect to receive an order to follow Walker, and bring her and Chuck back. Him alive, her, not necessarily. And he will follow them - but he won't even step foot outside Chek Lap Kok International. There will be another ticket waiting for him, at the El Al desk.

Because his final destination, for now, is Prague, by way of Tel Aviv, where someone has been contracted to decoy him, while Walker lays a false trail in Hong Kong.

Meanwhile, Chuck will wake up at possibly the worst hotel at LAX, with one hell of a motherfucking headache, like the one Casey remembers after three darts. He's betting Bartowski goes down after one, and it's a cold comfort, but still enough to make him smile.

***

Chuck wakes up at the Starwood Hotel, not 200 yards from the international terminal at LAX. Not that he knows it when he blinks at the shoddy room slowly coming into focus. He's clutching a card in one sweaty hand; he has to concentrate to uncrab his fingers from around it. The metallic taste in his mouth makes him want to throw up, but he doesn't think he could work up enough saliva to lubricate the puke on its way out.

The card says _Bible placed by the Gideons_.

When he can, he flops onto his side, his face pressed unfortunately against a bedspread he'd normally rather have died than touch. It smells of smoke and something like...what is that, dirty socks? Wet dog? He forces himself up onto an elbow, and reaches over to fumble in the night table drawer. Tucked inside the previously-unopened Gideon bible is a one-way plane ticket, LAX to London to Prague.

As Chuck rolls over again, he feels something yank at the skin of his lower back. His arms don't want to bend in the manner required to get his hands back there, so he rolls until he can dump himself onto the floor. A floor even more disgusting than the bedspread, and Chuck's stomach rebels. He's heaving before he can get into the dim, dingy bathroom, but at least he makes it over the sink.

After he's done emptying his already empty stomach, he turns and lifts up the tail of his shirt. Looks over his shoulder in the mirror even though it makes small explosions of pain go up his brain stem.

There's a small flat packet taped to his back. He scratches at it until he can get purchase on an edge of the tape, and then peels. It takes skin with it, and some of fine hair he never thought about having back there. Who knew that would hurt so much? Eyes watering, he opens the dark blue booklet that has been adhered to him.

So. Now he's Daniel Cochran, from Saskatchewan, and he's soon going to be making a very, very uncomfortable flight, in clothes that smell like shitty hotel and the biological byproducts of barbiturate processing. He regards himself blearily in the mirror; unshaven face and shadowed eyes, which drop as he unbuttons to take further inventory. He brushes a thumb over two-already-healing pinpricks, and suddenly things start to take shape. The handling might have been a bit rough, but at least now he knows who's running this show.

They could've at least left him a clean shirt for the trans-Atlantic flight.

***

Chuck's head stops spinning when he debarks at Ruzyne International. He doesn't have bags to claim, so he's a little lost watching people gather their things and greet each other in a polyglot of incomprehensible tongues.

Then his gaze settles on a black-clad driver, face obscured by the down-tilted brim of his cap, holding a handwritten sign. _Mr. D. Cochran_.

Amazing that he can now recognize another human being by no more than the broad span of his shoulders. Granted, John Casey's shoulders stand out in any crowd.

Chuck opens his mouth to spew questions, complaints, curses, anything, but Casey forestalls him. "Walk and talk," he says, forcing Chuck to match his long stride. They spill out into the main terminal with its modern, angular design and plate glass.

"Walker's in Hong Kong by now," Casey answers what he's sure will be Chuck's first question. "She's laying a decoy trail, and as soon as the retrieval team relays her location back to HQ, she'll eliminate them and disappear."

All things normal, Chuck would have been interpreting this information as it was given, more or less correctly. For all that heightened emotion still tends to cloud his judgement, he's learned to think well on his feet. But fighting off tranq residue layered beneath a fog of jet lag and anxiety, the synapses aren't firing as fast.

"Am I supposed to be with Sarah?" he asks, blinking as they exit the airport into the chilly, brightly overcast Prague morning.

"We're depending on HQ to think you are. Their evaluation of the situation is that you went with her of your own free will," Casey answers, setting a similarly brisk pace down the sidewalk towards a tram depot. "As of six hours ago, they also know I'm _not_ there, and hopefully they still think I'm in Tel Aviv." He pushes Chuck ahead of him onto the shuttle that will take them into the Old City. "Now shut up until we get off." Chuck's eyes bulge like he is bursting with questions, and possibly outrage, but he remains silent.

It helps to have some time pass in which Casey doesn't have to tell Chuck that by the time the retrieval team figures out he's not meeting them to collect Walker, she'll have them neutralized, and both she and Casey would officially be rogue agents. Blackfiled. Public Enemies 1a and 1b, thought to be in possession of the most valuable intelligence resource on the planet.

Chuck has never been a person to their employers. Casey used to find it irritating when Chuck's naivete, or moral compass, or hell, his weird charm, reminded him that the Intersect was actually a human. One that seemed to crave complex and messy emotional interaction, at that. It means Chuck doesn't ever fit into the map of strategies and orders and targets that Casey builds his world upon. Chuck's always been badly shaped for his role in all of this. And even though he sometimes seems softer than putty, Casey can't force him to fit.

Back on foot and moving again, Chuck is reminding Casey that he's a vulnerable, over-taxed human by wheezing and holding a stitch in his side. The kid looks a little green around around the gills, and his normally high color is off -- way off.

Casey doesn't bother to bite back a smirk. Take _that_ , nerd-herdling. "Got a little dart-hangover, Bartowski? I hear one shouldn't be too bad. You know...for men."

By now Chuck's gasping, and fetches up against a stone wall. "I...huh...I apologized...for that. Casey. Right?" More panting. "If I didn't...I'm sorry. It was...necessary..."

Casey can't quite look at Chuck as the kid leans over, trying to regain his breath. Somehow Chuck manages to look like a newborn colt, wobbling and unready to face the demands of outdoor life.

It's that whole real-person thing again. _You sucker_ , Casey curses himself as he hauls Chuck not ungently upward. "Right, necessary. And so is us getting off the street, somewhere you can take a load off and eat. Metabolize the rest of the sedative." He waits until Chuck seems ready to move again, and then sets a slower pace.

"And don't be sorry, Bartowski. Not for doing what you thought you had to do."

Chuck nods and coughs, and falls in alongside. "For the record," he says after a moment. "It took two."

Casey raises an eyebrow, and rewards Chuck with an encouraging grunt. Two darts, at least he can respect.

***

There's a back stairwell to the little studio Casey has rented. By the time they get there he's pretty sure he's going to have to sling Chuck over his shoulder and portage him up the stairs.

But it doesn't happen that way. Chuck makes it up and inside, and slumps into a chair at the small table. Casey, pressed into unwilling domestic service, finds an apple in the tiny fridge and tosses in a slow underhand arc to Chuck.

Chuck takes a bite like its the hardest thing he's ever done. And takes another. Casey's mouth quirks upward as he watches his charge perk up a bit. He's surprised when Chuck almost doesn't stop at the core. And then a bit distracted when the kid licks juice off his fingers.

Chuck, with his color returning, sucking on his own knuckle, is not a visual complication Casey needs right now. So he turns his attention to food and servitude again, and makes the kid a sandwich. Cheese, on the thick dark bread from the bakery around the corner. Casey remembers Chuck's affinity for complex sandwiches and rolls his eyes, even as he adds mustard. It will have to do.

"Beer or water?" he asks, even as he uncaps a bottle of dark Chodovar under the counter.

Chuck has the sandwich half gone before he even answers. "Both," he affirms, reaching for the bottle. "Like, I'm dying of thirst, and yet I have a feeling the beer here is more like its own food group."

Casey nods, passes, and gets himself one. An astute observation. As he drinks, he suddenly pictures a younger Chuck, Stanford ball cap jammed on backwards, pausing in some pub while on a backpacking trek across Europe. Smiling, and using that guileless line on some stranger in the pub...someone...someone not immune to those white teeth, and the head full of springy weird cowlicks.

Because _he_ is. Immune to those things, that is. And to the curve of Chuck's upper lip, with the coating of foam that Casey suddenly wants to wipe off with his thumb. Because it's messy, of course.

Fortunately Chuck handles his own mess, for once, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "So?" he hedges.

Casey knows that now he's in for some big-eyed Bartowski interrogation technique. He tips his head back for several long swallows. "Go ahead. Ask away."

"How long have you and Sarah had this plan to spirit me away?" Chuck asks.

Casey shrugs. Easy one first. He's not going to fool himself, though, that Chuck's still such a tenderfoot that he'll question without purpose. He's going after something.

Casey answers carefully, sticking to one of his own principles. Salt any lie with as much truth as possible. "Since the General gave the first order to bring you in for cold storage last year. It was Walker's opinion we needed a procedure in place for any scenario in which we didn't have enough intel to do our jobs properly."

"But you didn't think so."

"I came to agree. Later."

"When?"

"When Orion started communicating with us. Or with you, rather." It was a lie. It had happened quite a bit before that. Casey didn't figure the truth would help either of them, here.

And Chuck changes directions, almost like he already knows Casey's avoiding something. "So what job do you not have enough intel to do properly?"

 _Damn._. A muscle twitches in Casey's jaw, and from the flicker of Chuck's eyes, he's seen it. Casey deflects this evaluating gaze by bending to grab another beer. "Same job I've had since I met you, Bartowski. Safeguarding the Intersect. Fulcrum and Orion introduced too many variables."

Chuck is on his feet and inside Casey's guard quicker than expected, still being low on energy. And of course he latches onto the first part of that statement without considering the rest of it. "The Intersect. Not me. Not my father. Safeguard the technology?" He steps further into Casey's personal space; close enough for Casey to smell him - it's not entirely pleasant. Chuck's a few days unwashed and still sweating out sedatives.

Belay that. It _is_ pleasant. Because if John Casey were to be completely honest with himself, _any time_ he can smell Chuck it makes him way too fucking happy for comfort. He grits his teeth, and goddamn if he doesn't think Chuck, with that little narrowing of eyes, is onto him.

"The Intersect is way bigger than its container, Bartowski." Casey's voice is even gruffer than usual. "Nothing personal. National security is bigger than you, me, Walker, the General...you know that. Protecting you is like protecting everything America is founded upon." And that sounded pretentious, and now he's pissed. Casey steps forward enough to bump Chuck back a step. And Chuck does back up, but he's still not backing down. He's earnest, and verging on righteous. Almost aggressive.

Casey wonders what that would look like, from Chuck.

Casey wants to press his palm against Chuck's chest, and feel the beating heart he's held in his figurative hand for the past two years. Would that be too much to ask, when he's not willing to give Chuck the full truth? He's _never_ wanted the power of life and death over this kid. And right now, he wants to feel the pound of Chuck's righteous anger. Feel him alive, and free, and just enjoy it.

Chuck, God love the geek bastard, takes this opportunity to quote Star Trek. "The good of the many, John?" he asks softly.

John Casey bets that Chuck would think he couldn't complete this line in his head, but he can. _. . . outweighs the good of the few. Or the one._ Casey inwardly murders a squirrelly college roommate for watching fucking Star Trek II over and over before exams. He looks down, and is almost shocked to see his hand on Chuck's shoulder. It doesn't have quite the intimacy of his earlier hankering to feel Chuck's heartbeat, but the discomfiting memory of another line from that ridiculous film dribbles into his head.

 _You are, and always will be, my friend._

Casey watches Chuck watch the hand drop from his shoulder. And then they're both looking down at each others' shoes, and Casey would rather crack off the beer bottle in his hand and slit both of their throats than hear how Chuck possibly just managed to tap into his own incredibly loud thoughts. He turns away.

"Go take a shower, Bartowski. We'll talk after."

Casey doesn't let Chuck make eye contact again. Because he thinks it would probably be more intense than any Intersect-induced flash, and there would be no unknown truth left for Casey to salt his lies with.

***

  
Fortunately, Chuck is still under-fueled enough that his attention doesn't hold. Casey feels profound relief as Bartowski shuffles off to the miniature bathroom, obviously not built for men of their height. He's eating a handful of grapes as he goes, and mumbling something about whether a local bakery might have _houska_.

"I'll google that for ya, Bartowski," Casey grouses as he unpacks the satellite-enabled laptop he acquired on a layover in Amsterdam. It should allow him to remain untraceable on the web for at least a few more days. He works quickly, going through the procedures he and Walker hastily agreed upon before going their separate ways. He logs into a chat room they set up earlier for just this purpose, entitled "Nerd Herd Hosed My PC". It's their online rendezvous point for Contingency Plan Zero, and if Walker, slippery bitch that she is, is still alive and uncaptured, she should be on.

His eyes widen when he sees that the chat room is being used by about a hundred poor saps who think it's there for its titular purpose. Fucking people need to crawl out of the internet, for chrissake. He uses soft language to try to draw out Walker. **[Spilled froyo on keyboard]** he types into the chat window. Five helpful suggestions appear, none of them Walker's pre-arranged response to his cryptic message.

Casey cracks another beer and jiggles his leg underneath the table. There's no good way to blow off steam here. Patience is a vital virtue in his line of work, and he has it, but waiting still makes him edgy.

Fortunately, Chuck is taking his sweet time in the shower. Casey can still hear the high whine and occasional bang of the ancient hot water pipes. Absently, he notices that he forgot to point out the spare clothes he acquired for Chuck still lying folded on a chair.

And, then he's thinking about Chuck wandering out of the bathroom, blinking and wet-haired, clutching one of the undersized towels around him. The screen has been chiming insistently at him for thirty seconds or so when he shakes his head and startles shower-Chuck back into the dark recesses of his brain.

 **[Mango or chocolate?]** blinks the response. Suddenly he feels better. It's Walker. Mango is their code for 'things are seriously FUBAR', and chocolate...well, that's obvious, isn't it? Chocolate means successful collection of Chuck, which makes total sense. It sounds stupid, but they can't be too careful. The CIA, MI6, and probably other agencies all have bots screening for thousands of combinations of words and phrases. If they don't fly under the radar, it could bring any number of complications right down on top of them.

 **[Chocolate]** , he types, and can psychically feel Walker's sigh of relief. **[Cleaned it up & waiting for what's next]**.

 **[HK tech support understaffed]**. Hmm. Not exactly what he wanted to hear...Walker is still working on cleaning up the retrieval team.

 **[Any temps available?]** he types. Asking if Walker has been able to enlist the help of any of their somewhat iffy off-grid support network.

 **[In contact with freelancer]**. Great. Walker is talking to Larkin. Something Casey _really_ doesn't want to hear, and _so_ not off the grid. He's had to trust her thus far as to Larkin's reliability, but not having the guy within range of his SIG Sauer P226 makes him far less comfortable with Bryce's involvement. This will require further discussion.

And at that moment, he hears the shower go off with a clunk of pipes. **[Need to talk about how this will help take care of the chocolate. Will contact you with details on secure room]** , he finishes quickly, and logs off so he can stash the laptop before Chuck comes back into the room.

This enables him to get an eyeful of what he'd been thinking about earlier: wet Chuck in a woefully inadequate towel. Casey is quick to notice the way tension lends some definition to muscles that Chuck probably ignores, and that quickened breathing tightens his flat abs. Huh. Casey always figured nerds that sat around eating pizza and playing WoW were kind of squishy. Chuck is not, just rangy and long.

Chuck speaks, obviously more than aware of the fact that he's dripping wet and being appraised. "I may need to...uhh...borrow some...pants, or something. 'Til I can get something. You know, nothing major, just...more than this fig leaf masquerading as a towel." He finally stops and stands up straight, shoulders back, as if not wanting to seem too self-conscious.

Nice.

Casey finishes zipping the laptop back into its case while Chuck is thus distracted, and then points to the stack of clothes he put out earlier. "Wear that."

Chuck falls on the clothes like a starving man on pie. Five minutes later he's back from the bathroom, barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt, hair already starting to spring up in humid swirls. "Wow, you got the right sizes."

"I know all your sizes, Chuck," Casey replies. "Probably better than you do." Let Chuck chew on that one for awhile.

"Huh." Chuck is only momentarily distracted. "What were you doing on the computer?"

Damn. It was something Casey and Walker disagreed upon; how long Chuck should be kept in the dark about things. Walker argued they needed transparency, as if all went according to plan, Chuck would be on far more equal footing with the two of them, and they'd need him fully informed. Casey's opposing rationale was that Chuck still tended to go off half-cocked, and they couldn't afford him doing that now.

But he realizes that if he doesn't assuage some of Chuck's curiosity, he's going to have to keep the laptop in his pants the entire time, because Chuck can probably hack into the cache in as much time as it takes Casey to take a piss. "Walker and I have a semi-secure channel of communication set up. She was online long enough to let me know things are still a little sticky in Hong Kong."

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah. Don't worry."

Chuck heaves a deep breath at that. "Can't help it," he says quietly, and then sways a little. Casey is startled enough to get up in case Chuck goes down.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks, but he should know. A sandwich, some fruit and a beer aren't enough to keep Chuck going right now. And they're out of food. He grabs hold of Chuck's arm, to steady him. "Come on. We'll get out of here for a little while." When Chuck gives him a bit of a skeptical look, he shrugs. "I found a place that has your _houska_ , okay?"

He stays shoulder to shoulder with Chuck as they walk a couple of narrow streets down. Just in case he has to make another grab for him.

***

A couple of hours later, taking the long way back to the apartment through an overgrown monastery garden, Chuck almost feels like he's on some kind of holiday. And for all that he's with Casey, it doesn't feel like any sort of op or mission, because Casey seems almost...relaxed. Or at least less painfully vigilant than usual. It could have something to do with the bottle he's got encased in a paper bag, taking careful sips now and again.

He doesn't even back up when Chuck leans close for one of the swallows, and takes a good whiff. "What _is_ that stuff?" Chuck asks. He'd heard Casey speaking in flawless Czech to some red-nosed grocer at the shop, and seen money surreptitiously change hands before Casey had acquired the green bottle.

"Becherovka. You don't want any." Casey licks his teeth after he says it, as though he savors the very residue of the stuff.

Chuck feels slightly offended, but he's not sure why. He stops rummaging through the bag of pastries. "I do. I love that stuff. Becher...whatever. You betcha."

Casey raises an eyebrow at him before handing the bottle over. "Suit yourself. One warning: don't just dump it down your gullet."

Chuck has already taken a healthy swallow, and then promptly forgets how to breathe. It tastes like Vicks Formula 44, Jager, and Red Hots.

Casey gives him a hard pound between the shoulder blades. "They used to use it as an arthritis remedy around here."

When Chuck can wheeze again, he glares at Casey, eyes burning. "How can you...I thought you liked _good_ booze? That stuff's three-quarters of a lit molotov cocktail!"

Casey rolls his eyes. "I lived here for a couple of years, in deep cover. When in Rome..."

"And when in Prague...drink lighter fluid."

"Aww, Bartowski. You have sensitive taste buds."

Chuck blows a raspberry. "You wish," he crabs, and then feels all of twelve. _Yo' mama has sensitive taste buds, Casey._

Casey stops walking, a slightly more serious look on his face. "That's actually a desirable quality. For an agent. Means you're more likely to catch it in time if someone slips you drugs. Or poison."

Chuck regards him, wondering if Casey is screwing with his head, for like the millionth time. It doesn't feel like he is, Chuck realizes with a small welling of satisfaction. "Well. I have one actual trait useful to an agent. Go, me." He starts digging in his bag for more sweets. "It's not like agenty-skills will ever really be something I need on a regular basis, right?"

Chuck has fallen behind a bit, and Casey turns around to talk to him. Chuck is impressed, for like another millionth time, with Casey's physical prowess even in simple things. He can simultaneously walk backwards across a narrow stone footbridge, take a neat swig of evil liquor, and tell really believable lies. "If all things go according to plan, you will. Rogue agents freelance, Bartowski. How do you think we're going to finance this whole no-longer-working-for-the-government thing?"

"I dunno. I thought I'd write a tell-all book. Do the talk show circuit." Chuck is being sarcastic, trying to get a rise out of Casey. Normally, all he has to do to get one is be nearby, or have a pulse. "Or maybe I'd have a good career in porn."

This gets him a laugh. And then a long, measuring look, of the sort Casey gave him when he'd come out of the shower earlier, wearing the fig leaf. It makes all the blood in his brain rush south so hard his capillaries practically collapse from its sudden desertion.

"I wasn't kidding, Chuck."

"Sorry, I should have known. You don't kid." Chuck follows Casey over the footbridge, and looks down to rummage in his paper back for more food.

"I do. It's just over your head." Casey around again as Chuck falls into step with him.

Chuck snorts at this, and then coughs up crumbs. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not," Casey replies. "You have some natural ability. Beyond the taste-bud thing."

Chuck doesn't answer while he rechews what he just coughed up, but he's inwardly beaming. Until he trips over a loose stone in the path.

Frustrated, he stops short again. "I don't have anything of the kind," he says, a little irritated. It still all feels like he's being mocked, even by his own feet. "I have a sense of right and wrong, and I don't like killing. I'm a magnet for trouble, and bad luck. Like the luck that got me the Intersect." He's on a roll, and starts ticking off more reasons. "I'm clumsy, I have low pain tolerance, I don't like conflict, I had to learn to dance from my sister's _fiancé_...I can go on..." Chuck stops short, as he notices something.

Casey is gone. There's nothing left but a cool breeze swirling some leaves around.

Oh, this is bad, potentially very bad. It is very, very unlike Casey to disappear without giving Chuck some sort of instruction, or command, or ultimatum. And, while Chuck knows the guy is really, _really_ good at his job...he's not a ninja. Something is wrong, here. And there is no car to stay in, so Chuck's going to have to figure this one out on his own.

He backs off the path as quietly as possible and around the widest tree trunk he can find. It offers him a three-side vantage point, and still, no Casey in sight. Chuck wants to call out, yell, give bird calls, but he knows this may draw out the wrong person. So he waits a few seconds. They're the longest ones of his life.

Then he drops, and rolls down the slight embankment of the stream they had crossed just minutes ago. A few yards hugging the bank, and then he's tucked up snug under the little curved bridge, his heart feeling like it's going to sledgehammer its way right out of his ribcage.

Chuck tries to collect his thoughts. All he's got on him is the bag of pastries he crushed when he rolled along the ground. That's actually a little heartening - at least he didn't leave it on the path, a clue to his presence nearby. But other than that, he's tactically naked. No weapons, no cash, no phone, no passport. Casey was carrying the key to the flat.

He's not even sure he knows how to get _back_ to the flat from here. Or if he should try. Then he hears a rustle of leaves nearby. That's not the wind. Without thinking, Chuck scrabbles in the clayish soil for a loose stone. Will he really be able to bludgeon somebody with it? Maybe...maybe he can just knock them out, whoever it is, and get away...find Casey. There's no way he's just _gone_.

"Don't hit me with that," a voice says close to his ear, and Chuck drops the stone with a _meep_. If he weren't still so dehydrated, he would have just pissed himself.

Chuck turns to look at John Casey, who has just swung down next to him under the bridge. Chuck's mouth is dry, his brain won't work, and there's this sudden wave of combined nausea and relief.

"Breathe," Casey says, and Chuck does. It's a good thing, because if he hadn't sucked in air, he'd have passed out into the six inches of freezing water under the bridge.

"So," Casey begins again, as if they're having a normal conversation over coffee. "You see? Six months ago, even, you'd have been running around and screaming like a cheerleader. Instead, you got out of sight, pretty silently, and prepared to defend yourself, if not more than that. Now don't tell me you have no idea how to handle yourself. Got it?"

Chuck nods. Casey will apparently go to great lengths to prove a point. He swallows a couple of times, working up the ability to speak, if not think clearly. "Can we...get out from under here? There's a rock bigger than the one I grabbed sticking me in the back."

Casey shrugs like it doesn't matter to him, and extricates himself from under the bridge with ease. Chuck lurches, and has to drop a foot into the stream before he can clamber out.

When he's topside again, Casey hands him the bagged bottle again. This time, Chuck takes a big swallow. For all that it scorches the esophagus, it does bring a little clarity of mind.

"Can we go back now?" he asks. "No more magic disappearing act of doom?"

Casey takes the bottle back and nods as they resume walking, Chuck's shoe squelching loudly.

"If I do it again," Casey says as they leave the park, "you'll be with me next time."

***

Back at the little rented flat, they discover that the cafe downstairs has live music. It's easy to hear it with the windows open, and Chuck seems to have recovered from his earlier abandonment trauma. At least enough to grill Casey about what's going to happen to the people at home who are probably frantic right now, wondering where he is.

"You promise that they're safe? The CIA, the government, whoever, isn't going to be all over them?"

Casey shakes his head, they've already been over this once or twice on the walk back. "I guarantee the General placed someone in the LAPD, to follow up on the call from your sister when she realizes you're missing. Whoever it is, he'll be reassuring and useless.

"Ellie will freak. This will be horrible for her." Chuck looks a little dejected, staring out the window. The whole European-vacation thing has worn off, big time. _Meet the wet dishrag of reality, Bartowski, slapping you in your face._

"It's unfortunate, but there's no way to avoid it right now. She'll be okay. She's got people there for her."

Chuck turns and just looks at him for a long moment, as Casey remembers that those are Chuck's people too. An oddly functional, if unconventional little family, and motley collection of oddball friends of choice and circumstance. Chuck's been completely uprooted, and this is just going to be goddamned hard, for awhile.

But it's better than being in an underground bunker, and he knows Chuck is thinking that same thing.

"You promise, you _swear_ that I can contact them, once things are worked out?"

Casey could sense that one coming a mile away. And he's not going to lie, about this.

"We'll do everything we can," he replies.

It's the only answer he's got. He takes out a couple more beers, and hands one to Chuck. Because sometimes you have to go with whatever distractions you have on hand. Booze, and a lively discussion of the Velvet Revolution will have to get Chuck's mind off his troubles a bit.

"See! Violence and war aren't always the answer! If we'd operated here like we did in Afghanistan, they'd still be fighting!" Chuck seems to feel he's made a match point here, and Casey lets him have it. No need to give him the details on what was going on behind the scenes at the time.

"That's a bad comparison. What did they teach you at that hippie school?" Casey muses, just to get a jab in. But his heart isn't in it. Chuck is almost giggly, now that he's won an argument, had a few drinks, and stumbled over his feet once or twice. The warmth of the room and the music issuing up from downstairs have combined to make him comfortable.

And curious. "So. Prague. Isn't this where the whole thing with Carina went down?"

Normally this would earn Chuck a look, but Casey is feeling less burdened by things himself. He also feels like maybe he went a little overboard earlier at the park, and that letting Chuck needle him will even things out a bit. So he just snorts.

Chuck is thrilled to have gotten a reaction, one somewhere between anger, which would scare him, and concession, which would be boring. So he presses on a little. "Where she tied you up? The _first_ time, I mean?" He giggles, and his color rises a little more. It's hard to tell whether that's the alcohol, the heat, or the byproduct of asking such sensitive questions. Teasing about them, even.

Casey is glad he's still sitting, feet on the table, and that the heat has made him unbutton his shirt, because it forces Chuck to have to really eyeball him. Then he just shrugs and takes a long pull at his beer. There's no explaining the Carina situation...everyone thinks with his dick sometimes. Even Chuck must know what that's like. "Just beautiful Prague in the springtime, Chuck. I was caught up."

"In the spring, a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love," Chuck waxes poetic.

Casey rolls his eyes. Good work, Stanford, for glossing over the Revolutions of 1989 while championing banal poetry. "Let's hear it for a liberal arts education."

Chuck picks up his Buy More-issue tie off the back of the couch and looks at it thoughtfully. "Sooooo...beautiful, moonlit Prague, in springtime again..."

Casey almost has to do a double take at the way Chuck is holding the tie, doubled and looped like he's about to perpetrate some serious Texas handcuffs. And he laughs. Not mockingly. Just because. The very idea of it.

"You wouldn't have the slightest idea what to do with me tied up, Bartowski," he grins, long and slow.

And Chuck, always surprising, doesn't break eye contact. "I have an idea," he replies. Then his liquor-bolstered composure slides a little, with a cute stutter. "An-and I wouldn't just, like...leave you there, either."

Okay, this is new. Bartowski-banter, but instead of being retarded, it's kind of...dirty. Who knew Chuck might vocalize suggestive thoughts, and it would actually seem _right_. Very interesting. Worthy of pursuit, even.

"Oh? What _would_ you do?" Casey can see Chuck starting to get that duck-and-cover, almost-panicky look he still gets sometimes, and realizes he's going to have to mitigate the situation, somehow, if he wants things to keep moving in this direction. And he does. He's not even surprised that he does.

Because it's spring, and the moon is out, and he can smell trees in bloom and he can smell Chuck, who's got a little of that Becherovka tang spiked through his usual regular-clean-but-clueless-about-how-to-smell-good smell. Which smells _really_ good.

So he leans forward, more of just a quick shift in his chair, and grabs the end of the tie. Chuck still has his fingers wound in it, and it pulls him up in front of Casey.

Casey disgenages Chucks hand from the thing and holds it up, instructively. Try to distract Chuck a little from the energy in the room, without dissipating it. "Say this thing is all you've got. How are you going to immobilize me with it?"

Chuck's eyes pop open and his mouth just starts going. "Uhh...you? I think I'd...you'd...only way I'd immobilize you with that is if you were wearing it and I could get you to lean over a copier. Otherwise you'd just murder me."

Casey rolls his eyes and gives Chuck a slap on the hip that joggles him over to the side a bit. Now that that personal arms-length of space has been officially breached, it seems right to keep reaching into it. "Theoretically, stupid. I'm not me, I'm...someone else. I'm just someone you need to eliminate, or..." no need to set off Chuck's anti-kill alarm bells here..."get away from. And you, with whatever dubious wiles you possess, have gotten me alone, and taking off clothing. This isn't necessarily a tie. Could be a scarf, stockings, whatever. I took it off, and I'm not paying attention to it anymore, so you..." he stops, waiting for Chuck to pick up the ball.

Chuck looks at the tie like it has turned into a serpent. Carefully he takes hold of one end of it. "I don't suppose this is, like...equipped with any theoretical special devices?" He looks hopeful. "Because if we're talking imaginary-world, here, I can come up with some stuff that might work."

Great. This is what they get for giving Chuck a watch he can talk to. Total retreat from reality. Casey needs Chuck back in the moment, even if this whole little game they're playing right now is a distraction from the _actual_ moment. Hell, this is getting complicated. He stretches out a leg to hook the other chair and pull it closer. "Sit." When Chuck does, he leans forward again. "Christ, weren't you ever a boy scout or anything?" he asks, indicating the limp, dangling tie.

Chuck scoots his chair closer so that their knees touch. "Nah. That kind of required...parental involvement. Wasn't so much of that going on in my boyhood home, you know?"

"Mh." Daddy issues. Casey doesn't really feel like getting Chuck on the couch in quite this fashion. "Tie me a slip knot. Don't look at your hands."

This, fortunately, Chuck can do. "Around _my wrist_ , Bartowski," Casey growls when Chuck holds the loop up, grinning.

"Oh, okay." Chuck lets the loop unravel and passes the end under Casey's forearm, which he has propped across his knee. "Umm..."

"What."

"Not to criticize your instruction technique, of course...it's just..." Chuck trails off, clearly expecting to be shoved backwards or something.

"Spit it out. Today."

"Okay, ummm...wouldn't this be weird positioning for your arm? If we were, like...if you were...you know. Not you, and I've distracted you with my wiles, and you're removing clothing, and this is theoretically not a tie so why would we be like, holding it between us like this?"

As much as he almost wants to wad the tie up and stuff it in Chuck's mouth right now, he...well, Chuck has a point. Nobody, not even Chuck with his oddball ways of doing things, would be conducting a seduction sitting at a kitchen table. They'd most likely be sprawled across a couch, and instead of a tie, this would be the cord from a game controller, or something.

Well, part of that they can simulate. Casey stands up so quickly that Chuck startles, and still hanging onto the tie, he comes up too, and bumps into Casey on the way.

"Smooth," Casey smirks as he unwinds himself. Over in the sink, the Becherovka is lying in a bath of icewater; the stuff is so much better frigid. He picks up the bottle and uncaps, tipping it up for a quick drink which sends tiny shards of ice sliding down the bottle, and then down his arm. They melt before they hit the elbow, and the cool moisture feels good.

And when he makes eye contact with Chuck again, the kid has been staring; probably at his throat when he swallowed. Casey knows what sort of visual is likely to have that effect. "Fine, Casanova. Good suggestion on your part. Now back up three paces and drop on that couch. We'll do this in a more realistic scenario."

Chuck backs until his legs hit couch, and then he sits. He runs the palms of his hands down his thighs, and licks his lips.

Casey notes these gestures. Sweaty palms, dry mouth. Oh, Bartowski. You need _so_ much practice. And yet...would this be half as much fun if Chuck weren't all off balance and unsure and anticipating...something? No. It certainly would not.

He hands the bottle over. "Drink. Not too much. Just because you made a good point. If this were real-time, we'd both likely have had a few - hopefully you not so much - but some. So we need to add in that variable."

Chuck takes the bottle and frowns at it. "Maybe this stuff is an acquired taste," he mutters, and then takes a sip, and makes a face. Less of one than the first couple of tastes he's had, however. Casey sits next to him on the couch, and when he takes the bottle back, Chuck exhales a clove-y scent over their hands.

The warmth of breath gives Casey goose bumps. He's not sure he even remembers the last time this happened to him.

"It is that. An acquired taste," he replies, just watching as he tosses the tie across Chuck's lap. "Again, the slip knot. Eyes up here. We're having pleasant, boozy conversation in which you're inexplicably charming me." Casey can sort of imagine this actually happening, and puts an arm across the back of the couch. Might as well relax.

Chuck settles down a bit and starts getting into the spirit of things. "So, theoretical-opposing-clandestine-service-person. You come here often?"

Dorky, amusing, but not distracting. "I'm slumming," he replies, getting into character. Apparently his character is a bitch.

"You seem very bold, to already be shedding bits of your clothing for me to do nefarious things with."

Casey snorts. "I'm bored." He's almost startled when Chuck presses the the outside of his thigh against his, and he feels the completed slipknot tighten slightly around the wrist on the back of the couch. "And I'm a slut."

"Ah, I knew I liked you for a reason," Chuck nods, and without even hesitating, he puts a hand on Casey's knee. "Lovely Prague in the springtime has you all caught up, does she?"

"Something like that," Casey replies. He's running out of repartee here, why _is_ that? And why does Chuck have such long eyelashes? Has he ever noticed this before?

"How about another drink, Bored Slutty Fake Date?" Chuck suggests, and hands the bottle over. "I've heard the ancient Slavs saved this beverage for romantic liaisons, when they weren't using it to clean grease off things." He's leaned across so that Casey's arm, the one with the tie on it, would technically be around him, if he moved it a bit. And he could, because the tension on the tie is gone.

Instead, Casey takes the bottle with his free hand instead. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk, Crappy Pickup Line Guy." Chuck makes it so difficult to not want to play his little game. Casey has a sudden flash of insight, as he tips up the bottle, that _this_ is perhaps one very unique and useful skill Chuck brings to the table.

He feels a cool palm slide up his arm, and what the _fuck_ , it makes him sputter. Casey hasn't coughed up liquor since he was nineteen. The Becherovka feels impossibly cold as expectorated droplets trickle down his chest.

"Oh, sorry, sorry!" Chuck is suddenly all over the place, and actually has the balls to put a hand on Casey's chest. His hand is a shitty mop, however, and its broad palm instead just makes wet swirls of Casey's chest hair.

For a long moment, Casey just focuses on Chuck's hand, cooler than his skin, but warmer their combined breath ghosting over the alcohol. And then he stabs himself mentally because he has to completely redirect his focus to his dick, as it starts to lengthen down his right pants leg. That can't happen right now. Mainly because it would be fucking uncomfortable positioning.

So he takes a deep breath, centers himself, thinks about something unarousing (in this case, the memory of a distinctly horrific Jeff-and-Lester moment), and then turns to get up and find a towel.

And he can't, because of the sharp tug on his arm. And because of Chuck on the other end of the tie, grinning. "Gotcha," he exults, suddenly on his feet and holding up Casey's bound arm like a trophy.

Casey can't help but stare. "You can tie a clove hitch with _one hand_?"

"Hell no. You were distracted." Chuck is practically bouncing up and down with accomplishment. "Now I can attach you to the doorknob, or the bedpost, or...whatever." Chuck's mouth has apparently been running ahead of his brain, because he stops this train of thought abruptly. Or maybe his brain keeps going, because he blushes, and Casey can see a sheen of sweat on his skin in the waning evening light. He stands up slowly, so as to loom better.

Chuck rallies a little as Casey stares him down. "You shouldn't doubt my fine motor skills."

"Oh, I don't, Bartowski," Casey acknowledges. "But they're not going to help you right now, because, in case you didn't notice...we're nowhere near the door." He gives a yank, pulling Chuck off balance, although the kid doesn't let go. "Or the bedpost." _More's the pity, that._

"Dammit." Chuck lets loose with a rare curse, and Casey's pretty sure he's running through options in his head, so he gives a hard twist on the tied wrist, and flexes it. It momentarily cuts off circulation to his hand, but it also stretches the fabric just enough to let him get a thumb out. Then, once he's got a grip on it, he takes a step forward, and pulls down, and wrenches Chuck's arm back.

Except that Chuck hasn't had the presence of mind to step out or turn, and instead of ending up with Chuck's back to Casey's front, and him thus able to bend the arm up further, they're face to face, and he can't pull it up as well in this position. They're both too off balance to do much other than sway. And breathe hard.

Casey eases up on Chuck's arm as soon as he sees Chuck's eyes tighten. The last thing he wants to do is hurt the kid. He was just trying to make a point.

"Okay. You got me. Again." Chuck pants, and the tension Casey can feel in his bent arm eases a bit, so he lowers it more still, so that Chuck's wrist is pressed behind his own back. It's a posture as similar to embrace as it is to restraint. And the close relationship of those two things in this situation makes Casey wish he'd had taken the opportunity to readjust. A half-step forward and they'll be pressed together at the hips.

"What? You just give up?" Casey smiles. Bartowski's face is so close, and conflict makes it a twitchy, open book. "That can't be all you've got. You don't have any other ideas how to throw me off?"

"Doesn't involve throwing," Chuck mumbles.

Casey's about to make another comment when he feels fingers against his skin; Chuck's hand grasping his open shirt-front, tugging, and then the goosebumps again - warm breath and licorice, the taste of it. Because Chuck has pressed his open, mumbling lips against Casey's.

Chuck's still trying to talk. Of course. He is just _never_ going to learn when it's a good idea to just shut the fuck up.

Acquired taste, yes. Talking has kept Chuck's slightly chapped lips open, and Casey slides his tongue inside. Just enough to pull back in hopes that Chuck will mirror the movement; and Chuck does, following with his tongue. God, such small movement, and forget about it, Casey presses Chuck right up against him with the still-pinned-behind-the-back arm. Might as well let Chuck know how good this feels, to finally kiss him.

And the coolness of Becherovka tastes better than ever, spice layered over the slightly salty warmth of Chuck's mouth. The kiss still has those tentative little stops and starts. Chuck kisses like he's going on instinct, no finesse, just trying to fit their lips together. And they _do_ fit, somehow; the way Casey presses a little harder, and Chuck's lips plump with a little resistance, and somehow this makes his open mouth softer, instead. More yielding. Soft enough that Casey catches the vulnerable bottom lip with an incisor, and feels Chuck's quick inhale. So of course--he has to suck Chuck's lower lip into his mouth, and feel the way it swells, and listen to the soft sound Chuck makes.

It's a noise of supplication, or something deliciously like it, and not that Chuck hasn't been compliant...Casey just needs to know he wants it. He wants to be asked, and fuck if that little, broken noise against his mouth doesn't sound almost like begging. He frees Chuck's pinned arm so that he can use both hands to take hold of Chuck's face, jawbone cradled in his palms, and hold Chuck there while he kisses him; hard, deep, stroking his thumbs across the smoothish surface of skin Chuck apparently took time to shave very carefully. Feeling the small movements of Chuck's face as he kisses back. Feeling the hammering pulse under his ring finger as they both struggle to get enough air.

The activity is focused above the shoulders, but the sensation is not. Chuck is not shy or tentative when his eyes are shut--and his mouth open. The hand he's been using to hang onto Casey's shirt lets go and splays against skin, making Casey's breath hitch a little as it slides across the sensitive flesh of his ribcage. Down his side, and a couple of knuckles past the waist of his pants, Chuck skims right under the boxers too, before progress is foiled by a belt that will need to be undone first. His other arm wraps around Casey and hangs on, because their little mid-makeout jostlings against each other are making him lose his balance here and there.

And then he sucks on Casey's tongue, and suddenly Casey's the one giving a little groan. Of disbelief almost, but more raw enjoyment of the way arousal is making Chuck bold. And Casey, if he wasn't before, is _totally_ fucking hard now; the kind of hard where he almost wants to stop the kissing to tell Chuck about it. _You feel that? Yeah, of course you do. Only reason your hands aren't already in my pants is because you haven't lost that last bit of skittishness. But you'll get there. I'm gonna put my cock on your face, in your mouth, take it in hand and rub it down your neck, your chest, your belly. I'm gonna put it wherever you ask for. Because you'll ask. Only it won't seem like asking, because you'll demand, you'll say give it to me. On me, in me. While your hands grip so hard they leave bruises, and you'll bite your lip, you'll blush even as you talk dirty, hearing yourself do it, wanting it that fucking bad._

 _And you know I'll give you what you want._

Chuck pulls free with a half-murmur - perhaps he's coming up with things to say now - and Casey takes the opportunity to tilt his head down and move for Chuck's throat. Not the fragile front, but the side, where he can bite hard and still not break skin; get ahold of that long tendon there and bruise it. And whatever it was Chuck was going to say comes out as a gasp. His legs seem to give a little, and when he tries to get them to cooperate, Casey moves a hard thigh between them. It would be better if they were up against a wall, but Chuck's solid enough that he can push back...like _that_ , and now they both are fully aware of what they have to work with here. Casey licks the red imprint of teeth he just left behind, and Chuck grinds up against him when he does it, dragging cloth excruciatingly over skin for both of them.

There are a few long moments of difficulty, as Chuck reaches up, under Casey's shirt, fingers kneading into the dense triangular lat muscles. He takes hold of the fabric again, and has some success in working it down, off one of Casey's shoulders, but Casey's hands are still on Chuck's face, his neck, the back of his head, and the shirt won't go any further. So Chuck relocates, trying to cover as much flesh with his fingers as he can on the way down and around, and ends up fumbling with metal. Casey's belt buckle, and Chuck's vaunted fine motor skills are put to the test.

Particularly as Casey holds Chuck in place, hands unusually gentle on his face, and makes eye contact. If you can call it that when their foreheads are a scant half-inch apart.

"Wanna go somewhere you don't have to concentrate so hard on staying on your feet?" Casey asks as he feels his buckle disengage, and the slight movement bumps his lips against Chuck's.

Chuck nods, and inhales against Casey's chin. "Not the couch. Uncomfortable."

"You wanna take me to bed, Chuck?" Casey has his answer as his belt finally surrenders and Chuck doesn't stop there. Casey's thinking zipper next, but Chuck, always surprising, just presses against it, the presence of Casey's erection underneath it, his palm trapping the head against Casey's lower belly, and his fingers sliding downward.

Chuck has apparently done ample hands-on singular study, here, and Casey knows that's true because how many nights did he sit there sweating, headphones on, listening to Chuck breathe, the rhythm of it, the barest sounds of movement, speeding up and slowing...Chuck knows how to use his hand to full effect.

And Chuck smiles, lips swollen and wet with both of their saliva. "Yeah, John. I want to." Then his teeth worry the lower one, and his eyes take on an uneasy sort of alertness. "Like, if you do."

Chuck...is impossible. Casey almost has to shake his head at him, but he doesn't want this to be construed as a 'no'. Someday, even if he has to shove it in there himself, there will be an unassailable kernel of self-esteem lodged in the brainy area under Chuck's fluffy mop. "I'd think you were being coy, but I know better," he says, not smiling, but still warm. Time to get Chuck out of his own head again. "You realize the bed's probably about as comfortable as the couch, right?" Since Chuck still has one hand hooked through his belt, Casey backs up in the direction of the bed, pulling Chuck with him.

Now Chuck's smiling again, embarrassed by this momentary failure of confidence. "Maybe it's kinda like the unique charm of Prague," he mumbles. "Old and lumpy, but interesting-" he stops abruptly as Casey grabs the hem of his t-shirt and he has to raise his arms and let it be removed. "And I-I'm thinking I really won't be paying attention to the bed."

"Good thinking," Casey agrees. He tosses Chuck's shirt, then drops his own. The waning light, and the languid jazz still wafting from the cafe downstairs makes him want to take the time to stand here and just look for awhile, taking in the sights, but he's got a feeling Chuck can still be spooked by stillness.

Or perhaps by the realization that these are some new fucking circumstances. Casey has never asked, but he'd be willing to bet money or an Oliver North signed first-edition that Chuck has now had enough time to focus on his own hand, the one he had pressed up against Casey's cock, and the fact that he's never had his hands on an erection not his own, before. The dizzying boldness of lust and alcohol in the blood has gotten him this far. Now it's going to involve a little more delicate handling.

Literally and figuratively. He'd been going to suggest they lose the pants, at this point, but it's maybe best if Chuck comes up with that suggestion on his own. And this will require more making out. Not a problem.

"Turn on that lamp, the one on the bedside table," he suggests, pointing. It's on the other side of the bed, and when Chuck moves to walk around it, Casey reroutes him with a hand that slides up Chuck's back, stopping for just a second to explore the raised, rashy skin where they'd taped his passport. It doesn't stop again until it's at the back of Chuck's neck, and he can pull him forward to kiss him again. Chuck is all about this, and he gets into it immediately, open mouth, lots of tongue, downright messy. Then Casey pulls away from him - not that he wants to - and gives him a gentle push, so that Chuck has to put a knee on the bed. "The lamp," he reminds.

And this time, Chuck crawls across the bed to flip the switch. Its dim glow doesn't even illuminate the entire bed, and that's quite enough. Casey follows Chuck down, and when Chuck turns back around, he's right there to pick up where they left off. This time, he puts a hand on Chuck's chest and presses him flat against the mattress before kissing him again. Chuck's heart hammers like he's about to need shock paddles, but Casey chooses to believe its it's arousal, excitement, and finally indulges the desire to just lay down on top of him.

He feels Chuck's pounding heart even more when it's right up against his own. And...maybe it's a little bit him, too.

Chuck kisses like it's the only thing he's good at, his special talent, and he's going to make sure he's giving a good accounting of himself. Casey has no complaints whatsoever--about the way Chuck's mouth moves, the way he'll use his teeth, a little nip here and there before pulling away slightly to watch the reaction. One time, he stays still a little longer.

"What?" Casey asks. Nothing spooky here, so what's got Chuck looking like that?

"Nothing," Chuck answers, shaking his head minutely. He squirms a little, and _there_ , that's perfect...their cocks are aligned better, with less zipper getting in the way.

Chuck swallows. "You just...taste really good, is all," he says, a little hoarsely.

Those words make Casey's muscles clench, every single one from belly to balls. "You think so?" he asks, and drops his head so that Chuck can lick at his lower lip. And then bite it, and make wordless little sounds of agreement.

Casey reaches down to adjust his cock - they've really got to lose the pants soon - and his fingers come away a little wet. On a whim, he slides one between Chuck's swollen lips, and _there_ , that's one of the reactions he was hoping for; Chuck's eyes go shut and he inhales hard through his nose even as his tongue strokes Casey's finger. His lips seal around it, and he sucks eagerly.

"Like that?" Casey asks, before withdrawing.

"Oh, god, yes," Chuck whispers, his eyes opening to half-mast as Casey's finger pops free of his mouth.

"Have more," Casey suggests. He takes Chuck's hand and guides it between them, moving slickly through sweat. He doesn't even have to keep holding onto Chuck's fingers, but he does, until he feels them close around his cock, trailing through his pubic hair before curling around. Instinct takes over, Chuck gives him a light squeeze, and they both exhale together. Chuck strokes upward, touch still light as it can be with his hand trapped between them, and then down. On the second trip up he gives another little squeeze, just under the head, and then sweeps a thumb over the slit.

Chuck's pupils are totally shot as he brings his hand up to lick the juice off his thumb, and Casey forgets to breathe. From nervous innocent to erotic entertainer in the amount of time it takes him to put his thumb in his mouth. Unbelievable. There are probably going to be some complicated maneuverings in between here and there, but Casey's going to make sure Chuck comes so hard he wrenches a rib.

And then they're kissing again, and Casey can taste himself in Chuck's mouth, which makes him growl and grind down hard. His pants have worked themselves further down and he's actually sliding his cock across Chuck's lower belly now, so Chuck's pants have to go, too. "Lift up," he commands against Chuck's mouth, and Chuck does, and the jeans and boxers get yanked down far enough to be disengaged from one leg. They're in a _bed_ , for chrissakes, what is it that's making them behave like they're grappling in the backseat of a car?

He wouldn't have it any other way.

And now Casey's thrusting up against Chuck, his dick skidding through that light coating of dark hair on Chuck's belly, unsticking it from skin beaded with sweat and precome. Chuck's thrusting back, but it's a little uncoordinated until his hands finally leave off clenching Casey's arms, then his shoulders, and then migrate down to latch onto his hips. It gives him some leverage to work with, and this time when he grinds upward their cocks slide together.

Casey can't help but moan at this, and props up enough to get a hand between them again. He takes hold of both of them, together...he's going to have to give Chuck more individualized attention here in a bit, because now he just wants to squeeze and grip and feel that shaft of hard flesh against his own. Slippery - Chuck gets really wet. Hell, right now, that applies to both of them.

"That's - " Chuck gasps as Casey thrusts against him again. "Oh. That's good."

Casey smiles and doesn't mention the fact that this is pretty much the same motion he'd be making if they were fucking. Long, slow strokes, the kind that sound how deep he can comfortably go. Right now depth isn't an issue so he gives a little bit of a harder thrust. "What else do you like, Chuck?"

"This," Chuck says immediately, and Casey smiles, because that's the kind of decisiveness he was hoping for, as he feels fingers dig into his hips again. "I know...there's more," Chuck continues, breathless. "Not like, _know_ know, but, academically, or, I mean -"

Casey shuts him up with his mouth on Chuck's, and his hand around both of them again. Chuck's cock feels rock-hard against his dick, yet pliant in his hand, and the contrast is the most perfect thing on earth at the moment. Or, next to it. It's secondary to Chuck underneath him and moaning into his mouth.

And not just moaning, he's arching up against Casey, dragging in huge breaths and shuddering. They have to keep repositioning arms and legs in order to keep the contact they want, there's so much sweat and sticky fluid between them they can hear it in their movements. Then Chuck moves even more erratically, throwing Casey a little over to the side.

He raises up and sees a droplet of sweat land on Chuck's chin. "What? What is it?" he pants. No point in fooling himself that the friction hasn't got him right on the edge, too. He pushes some hair out of Chuck's face, and then is simultaneously shocked at the intimacy of this action, and by the fact that instead of making him lose wood, it makes him hotter. Particularly when Chuck turns his head and mouths against his palm.

Then Chuck grabs his hand and moves it southward again. Firmly. Demanding, even. Past the previous double-pump-handjob location. Further down.

Casey moves for a very, very short break in the action. "Need lube for that. It's..." Fuck, he can't remember where the lube is with his brain in his dick, and Chuck being all _do me_ and _NOW_.

Chuck responds with a frustrated sound. He yanks Casey's hand up again, in front of his face, and spits in it.

Casey about gives it up right there, like a teenager. So he doesn't waste time staring at the saliva dribbling down his fingers, he nudges Chucks legs up higher and gives him what he asked for. One wet fingertip against his asshole, and it's got a little bit of the bloom of softness from hours of messing around. Perfect. Casey leans forward to kiss him again as he presses, circling, testing. Chuck makes a little _mmph_ sound.

"Push a little," Casey murmurs against Chuck's lips, and when he feels it, he slides in, two knuckles deep, easy. He knows that telling someone to relax generally has the opposite effect, so he just pumps slowly in and out, letting Chuck get used to it.

"Oh. That's... _oh. Fuck._." The words are so precise, and expressive. It's the first time Casey's ever heard Chuck use the word, and he doesn't know how he keeps from fucking him through the mattress, right then. But he hangs on.

"There?" he asks. Chuck doesn't answer at first, his eyes are kind of glazed over. Then Casey adds the second finger and repeats the earlier slight motion.

And Chuck's hand closes around his wrist. Not to stop him, but to hold him there, and fuck down onto his hand. His stomach muscles clench and contract visibly as he tilts his hips up, then back.

 _Welcome to the dark side, Bartowski_. Casey vows to do this again sometime when he has the presence of mind to tease a little, say dirty things to Chuck about his sexy, wanton squirming. Watching this is so much better than porn, because actors know what they're doing, and they're probably not actually doing it anyhow. Chuck doesn't know, but he's so fucking going to make himself spurt this way.

Casey realizes he's been staring, tongue caught between his teeth, almost a passive observer, and puts a little more arm into a thrust. Chuck cries out, and his eyes squeeze shut, and his hand closes around his cock and starts moving. Casey coordinates his fingering with Chuck's short, tight pulls.

Then Chuck gasps, and his eyes open wide. His pupils stay huge, even in the light.

Casey leans close. He bumps Chuck's lips with his own, and curls his fingers. " _There,"_ he whispers, voice lower than gravel. " _Come on._ "

Chuck's eyes go shut again, and he clenches his teeth, hissing as a thin stream of semen shoots up onto his quivering stomach. Then a thicker one, and another, and he moans long and loud.

Casey waits until the even, pulsing grips around his fingers ease up, and then eases them out and wipes them on the sheets. Chuck has his eyes open again, sort of, and watches this. He looks down at the milky white liquid scattered across his stomach, even pooling in his shallow navel. "Should've warned you before, maybe?" he asks, still loose-lipped and inarticulate.

Casey thinks back on the pregame show, Chuck's expressions, physical signals. God, his dick _throbs_ \--just thinking about watching Chuck come. And then he smiles, hoping he'll get to watch it again. A lot. "Don't worry about it. Only hurts if you get me in the eye."

Chuck's all wobbly, and props himself unsteadily on an elbow to mop off with a corner of the sheet. "Next time you should wear those glasses when we do it," he says, only half joking.

Casey looks at Chuck, who's a messy, flushed sprawl across the sheets. He wants to tip Chuck backwards and just dive into him, devour him, fuck him until Chuck begs for mercy. Unlooked for stirrings of affection are warring with the discomfort of thwarted climax, and he's unsure of what to do with that. It maybe requires a moment of distance, so he can think. So he gets up and heads for the bathroom. A handwash, at least, is required.

***

Chuck watches Casey go, eyes caught on the way his muscles move from his calves all the way up to his sculpted ass. This visual perusal would have gone further, but...ass muscles. Cannot. Look. Away.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Chuck calls, feeling suddenly a bit lonely. Casey's probably not the type for cuddling, but that doesn't mean they can't...talk. Okay, right. Not much for talking either. It doesn't mean they can't do other things. Casey's got to be feeling a little...in need, right about now.

Chuck's had enough blue balls in his life to know this. And he's not going to let that happen to John Casey, whom he's just spent the last hour making out with. Whose fingers have just been deep inside him, working some kind of crazy magic. That's sex, right? And they're not _done_ , right?

Chuck's going to make sure they're not done. Casey appears again in the doorway of the little bathroom, completely filling it. Chuck can't help but stare. He'd rather have close-up detail, but even the silhouette is way better than good.

"Washing up. Thought I might take a shower," Casey replies.

"Want company?" Chuck asks hopefully. Oh, yeah, hot water and something slippery, and what would it be like to lather up that chest?

Casey laughs a little. "You were in here earlier, right? Maybe noticed it's not exactly built for two?"

Good point. Okay, time to get a little bold, here. It's hard for Chuck to assume his attractiveness, he's had enough letdowns. But here...he's got almost two years of noticing the things John Casey likes to look at. He's going to use that. He tips his head back, lengthening his neck and torso and shaking sweaty hair out of his face.

When he looks back up, he has officially gotten Casey's attention, and he has no idea how the guy is still upright with that much blood in his cock.

Chuck smiles, and stretches a little, rolling his shoulders back, enjoying the way the movement makes him aware of a slight sensitivity left over from earlier. And...there, left knee up under the sheet, so that he's exposed. He's not hard anymore, but it's got to still be appealing, right?

"You don't need a shower. Come back here," he suggests. _Jedi mind tricks wouldn't work on you, John, but I think I know what will_. "Please," he adds as an afterthought.

When Casey moves closer, Chuck rolls over onto his knees and sits up a bit. _God, Casey. Get over here so I can get my hands on that beast. And several other parts of me._ Orgasm has relaxed Chuck to the point of ease and familiarity, both of which he wants to exercise on Casey's cock.

Casey's wearing a little smirk when he pulls up at the edge of the bed. "What, I go to leave you alone for five minutes and you're bored?"

Chuck shakes his head, still up on his knees on the bed. With Casey standing, it puts him several inches shorter, for once. "Don't want _you_ getting bored," he says, his hand drawn to the dip of tense lower obliques. "I kind of got the impression you weren't...done, yet, anyhow." Casey's erection, still in full effect, is so close to his hand Chuck thinks he can feel heat pouring off it.

"I'm not inexperienced in delay of gratification, Bartowski," Casey replies, but he doesn't move while he lets Chuck stroke his hip.

It's the use of his last name again that feeds Chuck an insight, far more subtle and intuitive than an Intersect flash. It's like sex with this man has opened up the previously unseen top and bottom of the color spectrum. Things that were too bright, or too dark, to see before.

John Casey is trying to establish some distance. For himself, probably. He doesn't want Chuck to feel pressured, or obligated. Both of their lives are far too full of those things.

So Chuck's not going to mince words. "I _want_ to. Let me make you feel good." Chuck knee-walks forward enough to put his other hand on Casey. Same location, on the opposite hip. Where the pressure of his fingers has to focus all of Casey's awareness into what's so appropriately framed between Chuck's hands, if it weren't focused there already.

Casey doesn't answer, but, after a long moment, he touches Chuck's wrists and slides his hands lightly up, from forearm to shoulder.

Chuck feels giddy. Body language is an amazing thing, and he now feels like he speaks it fluently. He lowers slightly on his knees, so that, if he's visualizing this correctly, Casey can see his upturned face, and below it, several inches of achy-hard shaft. "You've thought about it, haven't you," he says softly. It's not a question. "I know I have."

Chuck sees the ribcage movement of a hitch in breath. He looks down at the cock bobbing at about collarbone level. Strong fingers carding into his hair make his eyes fall closed.

If he'd still been looking, he'd have seen his warm exhalation make Casey's dick strain towards him. But he can feel the strain, the restraint, melting away in the hand on his head, and the one on his shoulder. And then he's backing up, onto the bed again. Casey follows, and Chuck makes room for him, and makes sure he keeps his hands all over him. Roaming. Touching everything he's thought about, because it's just laid out in front of him like a seven course meal. With way more than seven courses. He could keep busy with just his hands for hours.

"Remember what you said to me? Before?" Chuck asks. He says it against Casey's mouth, and elaborates before getting a response. "You asked me what I like."

"Yeah," Casey's breathing has sped back up again, and his hands are gripping, hard, wherever he gets ahold of Chuck. "You kind of didn't know."

It was true, although Chuck has a much better idea now. He smiles, slow and lazy, and finally wraps his fingers around the prize; long, girthy, soft skin over hard flesh. "I'll bet _you_ know," he says, gauging the reaction by the slight thrust up into his hand. "You should tell me."

Chuck waits for an answer as they jockey for position a bit. Casey ends up propped a little more comfortably against the flattened pillows. "Oh? You're going to show me you've become better at taking direction?"

Chuck is amazed. If only he'd known earlier - weeks, months ago. Sarcastic comments, rhetorical questions...this was Casey flirting.

"Hey, when have I ever not been a quick study?" Chuck asks. He drops his face to Casey's chest, nosing around, exploring. Thank god the man didn't take a shower, because the very smell of him...arousal and relatively clean sweat, layered over...what is that? Chuck licks a stripe down Casey's sternum to his belly. Oh, right - he'd spit Becherovka onto himself earlier, on the couch. When Chuck fondled his arm.

Casey thrusts upward again at the touch of Chuck's tongue. "I'll give you that. You're teachable," he almost growls, his voice dropping into that dangerous, lower register. The one Chuck has so often replayed in his head when bringing himself to shuddering, solitary orgasms night after night. Chuck has moved further down, paying attention to the sensitive landscape around Casey's navel. He dips his tongue lightly into it, and gets another thrust that bumps Casey's cock against his ear.

"I know that doesn't go there," Chuck breathes against humid skin.

"Then put it where you think it goes," Casey suggests.

Chuck turns his head, and Casey's cock is _right there_ , waiting for him to...do things. Well. Chuck does know it doesn't go in his ear - that wouldn't be any fun for anyone - but the rest of his face, hey; there's a basic way one goes about this, but there aren't any hard-and-fast rules, right? This is about sensation, temperature, pressure - he's sure there are other things involved too, but it's also about what _he_ wants.

He just exhales first; takes hold of Casey's girth near the base and breathes out over the smooth, rounded surface below his mouth. Then he touches his lips to it, slightly rounded and open. The skin he touches is softer than his lips, and tighter somehow, too. He breathes in through his nose. Casey's scent is heavier here; wilder, and Chuck almost groans as his own vascular system comes back online, deep in his groin.

"Get it wet," he barely hears the words over the rush of blood in his ears.

Chuck opens his mouth further, slides down a little. His tongue molds easily to the curved surface breaching his lips, and he swirls it around a couple of times. Enough to notice the way Casey's cock feels different to the front and back of his tongue. He pulls back up; no suction yet, just movement. Tasting. Chuck repeats the circular tongue-swish around the broad crown. He's had this done to him before; and the girl doesn't re-enter his mind along with the distant memory. Just the movement.

And he repeats the movement, thinking it probably fulfills the earlier command. His mouth waters; the skin here just tastes like skin, although its texture seems smoother under the roughness of his tongue. Except when he curls under the edge of the head...it's different there, almost like tiny ridges. Chuck moves his mouth over to one side so he can check it out with a finger. As he does this, his thumb slides through his own saliva, neatly into that little indentation topside. He doesn't know what it's called, but he knows it's impossibly sensitive, particularly when he hears Casey's skull _thunk_ against the bed's low headboard.

Chuck pops up immediately, apologies ready to spill. "Was that...too much, huh? I was just...I didn't mean...Damn. I'm new at this."

He worries that he's actually done something _wrong_ when Casey comes into focus, sprawled, head back, eyelids at half-mast. The thing that worries Chuck most is Casey's hand. His arm is lying at his side, and the hand is...palm up. Open. The universal signal of surrender in those used to handling weapons. Casey _never_ does that - probably not even in his sleep.

 

And then he speaks. His voice is husky. "Chuck," he says, and Chuck is instantly so hard again it hurts, so hard he has to drop a hand and give himself a little grip.

"Shut up. Please."

Those are the best terms of endearment, ever, in history. Chuck immediately complies, and makes the rest of his apologies by sinking straight down on Casey's dick. He takes more of it this time, a little more than feels comfortable as his throat gives a warning tighten. He pulls back up, letting his lips drag along the veined surface, and goes back down. And again. He could get used to this. It feels good, and it feels even better when Casey puts a hand on the back of his neck.

" _Mnhh_...you should...suck a little," Casey murmurs.

 _Right. Sucking cock requires suction._ Chuck knows this, he could smack himself in the forehead for forgetting. This time, he draws in his cheeks on the way up. It's a little harder to suck as he takes Casey's cock, so he releases on the down, and sucks harder on the up, until he gets used to it and can maintain. It makes his jaw ache a little, but he's pretty sure this is good, the way maintaining suction keeps his lips tighter around Casey's hard shaft.

He wants to know it's good, so he tilts back enough to look up at Casey. When their eyes me et, Chuck slows down, and goes down, exhaling, trying to concentrate.

Casey, a second ago, had his lower lip caught between his teeth. Now his mouth drops open in a vocal exhalation, and his hand tightens on the back of Chuck's neck. Chuck keeps staring, because seeing Casey debauched like this, and _being the reason for it_ , makes hormones of lust and power dump into his bloodstream.

It also makes him a little too ambitious, and he goes down at a weird angle that makes cock hit his soft palate _way_ too hard, and he splutters and chokes.

Fortunately, Casey doesn't seem like this threw him off his game too much. "Not like that," he says hoarsely, wiping saliva off Chuck's chin with a surprisingly gentle thumb. "Gag yourself every time." The hand at the back of Chuck's head tightens, fingers twisting in his curls, not quite hard enough to hurt.

Chuck lets Casey position him, and lets a few inches of hard cock pass through his lips again. Neglected, his own dick throbs, and he wonders if anyone ever came just from giving head with a forceful, long-anticipated hand in their hair. Casey holds him in position, and thrusts up into his mouth. He seems to know the perfect depth...it's what he needs, and what Chuck needs, and all Chuck has to do is hold him steady. And touch him, as much as he wants.

Chuck finds himself able to let go and relax, into the rhythm of it, and he's letting Casey nudge his head downward too. _Fucking my mouth,_ Chuck thinks helplessly, and he can't help but moan around Casey's erection. He feels it swell a little in his mouth, and the slight change in taste makes him moan again.

There's a harsh sound from above his head, and suddenly Chuck feels like he could die happy, having gotten to share this. Or perhaps that he'll die if he has to stop. Both of them may. He puts all of himself into it; all of the frustrated lust, all of the wanting this and not _wanting_ to want it so badly that it hurt. He has no idea how such longing and desire seem to fit so perfectly with the obscene, wet sounds of him sucking John Casey's cock, trying to make him come.

He's pretty sure he should be more careful with his teeth, as Casey makes a pleading sound Chuck has never heard before.

"Thorry!" Chuck gasps, as he doesn't quite pull off. "That wath..."

He feels the coil and clench of Casey's entire long body beneath his hands and mouth, and the energy of the movement communicates even before Casey's growl does. " _Don't...fucking...stop..._."

It's all he needs. Chuck swallows Casey down with purpose, somehow figuring out that he can make up distance with his hand. Their earlier rhythm is barely established before he feels hard breaths stirring his hair again, and Casey's dick surges again in his mouth. Casey is saying something urgent...there's cursing, too, and Chuck's name...

He says Chuck's name, and then Chuck feels liquid pulse against roof of his mouth. Hazy, brainless, he barely remembers to close his throat. Thick, slightly bitter semen coats his tongue. He stays still and takes it. Chuck's eyes water, and from the side he can see Casey's hand grip the sheets. It seems like it takes a long time.

It's kind of perfect.

Casey's hand slides from the back of Chuck's head, to the side of his face. Chuck can feel Casey's fingers shake as they nudge his face gently off, and aside. His lips slurp as Casey's length slides out, and Chuck manages to drool across Casey's thigh.

He cannot even think what to do at the moment. He stares at the discarded shirt - his own - that Casey is holding in front of him.

"Chuck," Casey says. "Use this."

At that point, actual thought registers. Chuck gets rid of his mouthful in the shirt and drops it beside the bed, before dropping his forehead to Casey's hip. He's still hard, but he has no idea what to do with that, right now.

Fortunately, John Casey, always resourceful, does know. Without a word, he pulls Chuck down next to him, and makes use of the puddle Chuck left behind.

Chuck arches and shudders and Casey jerks him off with the slick leftover combination of saliva and semen. A handful of strong pumps, and Chuck is crying out and spurting into that strong hand.

Time passes languidly, like bubbles in honey. Chuck gradually starts to notice things other than his loud heartbeat. He's on his back, and the back of his head is propped on Casey's arm. Casey himself is looking down at him.

"You're right. You are a quick study," Casey says after a moment. And he smiles. It's a full smile on one side of his mouth, and the other side almost makes it that far.

"You...should not doubt my skills. Any of them," Chuck replies, holding up a finger in admonition.

Casey takes his hand, and bites down lightly on Chuck's forefinger. "I'm learning that," he replies.

"Tell me I give good head."

"Don't fish for compliments."

"I'm not fishing, I'm being pretty up-front about it."

Casey raises an eyebrow. "Point. You give good head. Not that you couldn't benefit from practice."

Chuck giggles at this point, and notices that he's running the backs of his fingers up Casey's side, and it almost spooks him. Then he realizes. They're doing an afterglow thing. If he calls attention to it...it might go away.

"You probably want a cigar, or something, don't you?" he asks. He's not ready to give up the contact just yet, but he figures it's good form to be considerate. He wants to keep Casey happy, give him as much of what he wants as possible.

Chuck feels Casey shrug, and the movement somehow shifts him a little closer, close enough to reach across Casey's body. And just leave his arm there.

"Maybe later," Casey says. "This is good for now."

***

There is just a moment of confusion, when he awakens to a voice he doesn't know, singing words that seem to suit the darkness, and the sleeping form beside him.

 _Non, rien de rien  
Non, je ne regrette rien  
Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait  
Ni le mal tout ça m'est bien égal..._

The café downstairs must be about to close, if the haunting voice channelling Edith Piaf is any indication. Casey looks over at Chuck, asleep on his stomach, one arm dangling loosely off the bed.

Safe, for the moment. They both are.

 _\--End_

Note:

Quoted lyrics in Part II are from the song _Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien_ , composed by Charles Dumont, with lyrics by Michel Vaucaire, 1956. The title translates literally as "No, I regret nothing," and is often rendered simply as "No Regrets".  



End file.
